


No One Knows (Except the Both Of Us)

by Burning_Up_A_Sun



Series: Adult Education [4]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Christopher is Mycroft's boyfriend, Fake/Pretend Relationship, Friends to Lovers, Jamms!Verse, Kidlock, M/M, Mycroft is 16, Mycroft-centric, Roommates, Sherlock is 10, Sherlock is a Brat, Teen Mycroft, Teen Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-24
Updated: 2014-09-24
Packaged: 2018-02-18 15:28:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,706
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2353310
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Burning_Up_A_Sun/pseuds/Burning_Up_A_Sun
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>6th Form roommates, Mycroft and Christopher, are meeting Mummy and Father and annoying 10 yr old brother Sherlock for lunch. Mycroft wants to keep their relationship a secret, but will Sherlock be Sherlock and figure it out?</p>
            </blockquote>





	No One Knows (Except the Both Of Us)

**Author's Note:**

> Although this is part of my JAMMS-'Verse, it will read fine as a stand alone. i hope you enjoy it.  
> All mistakes about the incredibly confusing British Public Schools are mine, and i apologize. Also, my (apologies) to Harrow, but their little hats are so dang cute. How could I not?
> 
> Super huge thanks to doctorsdaughter and 221btls for keeping me right. Better Betas. They're mine. you're jel.

"Why won't your hair stay where I put it?" Mycroft combed down his roommate’s thick blond hair with his fingers, fighting against nature. "We cannot meet my parents and brother for lunch with you looking well shagged."

"I have a good excuse," Christopher said, pulling Mycroft closer by the lapels of his school blazer and kissing him deeply, sliding his tongue over Mycroft's. "Until ten minutes ago I _was being_ well shagged. And you made my hair look this way." He took Mycroft's hand and pointed it back at him. "You. Not me."

Mycroft’s tummy flip-flopped. Christopher’s voice did that to him, smooth and deep touching something visceral, but when he talked about their private moments, Mycroft stopped thinking…he pushed his roommate against the closed door, kissing him, tracing his smooth jaw with small bites. He knew about the sweetest spot, right under Christopher’s ear. If he nipped there, perhaps Christopher’s knees would buckle and he’d wrap his arms around Chris tighter until they slid down to the floor, Mycroft’s knee pressing against… They heard the taxi's sharp honk, idling in front of their boarding house at school.

“Shit,” Christopher groaned. “Seriously bad timing.” He turned away and slipped his hand into his trousers, to rearrange himself. Mycroft commiserated, attempting to breathe evenly and calm himself.

The taxi driver openly smirked as they approached the cab. “I’m assuming we are still a bit obvious,” Christopher whispered to Mycroft, sliding into the back. Mycroft squeezed his hand in agreement and embarrassment as he gave the address to Meliá White House Hotel near The Regent’s Park.

“We must create the illusion that we are no more than friends,” Mycroft said, his voice hushed for privacy. He automatically straightened the sloppy knot in Christopher’s Harrow tie and then trailed his hand down to Chris’ prominent hip bone. To trace it with his hand and think about that morning when he followed it with his tongue. A flush rose on his cheeks and his heart skipped a beat at the thought.

“Friends. Not lovers.” The corner of Christopher’s mouth curled up in a languid, half smile. Mycroft lived in that sated look, feeling like he’d finally come home—most often after they made love, melted together in the bed. No one else had ever seen it but Mycroft. No one ever would.

He brushed a kiss on Christopher’s palm. “No, definitely not as lovers. I cannot even fathom what my parents would say.” He looked away, out the window to the sights on Marylebone Road, so Christopher wouldn’t see the tears form in his eyes. _“You’re 16, Mycroft--too young for this. It’s a phase, Mycroft. They wouldn’t understand how I feel.”_

Christopher put his hand on Mycroft’s knee to still the bouncing. “But _I_ understand how you feel.” He gently turned Mycroft’s face back to his. “We won’t tell them. You always say it’s private, so it’ll be private. They don’t need to know that I love you.” Christopher’s breath hitched, and he bit his lips. He’d never said that out loud before. His heart skipped, waiting for Mycroft to respond. To say something. Anything, except to laugh.

Mycroft nodded into Christopher’s hands, still cradling his cheeks. “I love you too,” he mouthed. Christopher leaned in and kissed him quickly, worried that if the cabbie took issue, he could pull off to the side of the road and make them get out.

When Christopher moved his hands, Mycroft released his breath and opened his mouth to speak, but was cut off.

“Mycroft. I won’t slip. I’ll be your mate. A bloke. I know how to speak to parents.” Chris accentuated his words with manly grimaces and flexing biceps.

“That would be much more convincing without your school blazer on,” Mycroft laughed, which triggered Christopher’s laughter. “However, you need to watch my brother. While we may convince my parents we are simply friends, my little brother is likely to deduce the truth.”

“Clever, is he?” Christopher teased. “More clever than you?”

“No. Not more clever.” Mycroft bristled at the ridiculous presumption. “Less... mannerly. He blurts things out without thought to the hurt he could cause,” he said as the taxi pulled up to the hotel. Mycroft pulled several notes from his billfold and handed them to the driver, stretching the time to settle his breathing and compose himself.

Christopher, who’d already left the taxi, approached the well-appointed middle aged couple in front of the hotel. “Mr. and Mrs. Holmes, I presume,” he said, voice bright and smooth. “It is lovely to finally meet you, ma’am.” He grasped her hand in both of his. “Mycroft speaks often of you both.” He extended his right hand to Father in a firm handshake.

Slouched against the wall of the hotel stood a young boy, dark hair, unruly curls, sharp cheekbones. Christopher would never have guessed him to be Mycroft’s brother if it hadn’t been for the epic sulk the boy was indulging in.

“Hello, Sherlock. I’m Christopher,” he said, extending his hand to the stroppy 10 year old.

Sherlock ignored the hand, raking his eyes over his brother’s roommate, taking in every detail.

“Caucasian, British descent, likely your family hails from greater London based on most of your pronunciations. You, however, were raised in Asia. Possibly Hong Kong, which I also hear in your words. You are now at Harrow, and judging by your crisp uniform, this is your first year. How did you manage that? Very few slots open for new A-level students.” Sherlock spoke with authority, having learned that his deductions yielded a greater impact if he delivered them firmly. He hadn’t fully mastered sounding bored as he spoke; today he showed off, proud that his observations would rankle Mycroft.

“Yes, you are clever,” Cristopher said, amused rather than irritated. Mycroft arrived, red faced and spluttering, irritated enough for both of them, just as Sherlock had hoped.

“Sherlock, close your mouth. Happy Anniversary Mummy, Father. I trust Christopher has already introduced himself.”

Mummy clucked over Mycroft as she hugged him. “Are you spending too much time studying, dear?” She asked, “Christopher, tell me. Is he working too hard and forgetting to eat? You’re getting so thin.” She held a reddening Mycroft at arm’s length to assess him, while Christopher stood laughing with Sherlock.

“I think you mean _his_ hair is getting so thin,” Sherlock snarked, “but definitely not his waist. He’s gained several pounds since the Long Break at Easter.” Sherlock stopped his sentence and stared. “Although, you are right Mummy. Something _has_ changed. Don’t worry. I’ll figure it out.” The game was on. He would figure out what Mycroft was hiding.

Mummy held Sherlock’s hand as they entered the Spanish restaurant in the hotel. Mycroft was sure he heard her whisper, _I’m sure you will, darling_. His stomach fell and he rolled his neck and shoulders to ease the tension. He was now 99% certain he’d be outed by dessert.

The Maître D’ escorted Father, Mother and Sherlock. Christopher hung back to whisper to Mycroft. “Yes, Sherlock, something has changed. Your brother and I became lovers over break, and we shag any chance we get!” he said, adding kissy noises to tease Mycroft.

“I would appreciate it if you would not encourage him.” Mycroft snapped at Christopher as they were seated in the two open spots. Christopher sat between Mummy and Sherlock; Mycroft took the spot across from Christopher next to Father.

While their parents studied the menu, Mycroft glared at Sherlock, which pleased him inordinately. He pointed at his brother and laughed, having succeeded in burrowing under Mycroft’s skin deep enough that he’d lost his composure. Christopher snickered, and Mycroft, tight lipped, kicked him in the shins with the toe of his black brogues. Christopher took a deep breath and stared at Mycroft with a frown, one eyebrow raised. Underneath the table, the toe of _his_ brogue slipped under Mycroft’s trouser leg and stroked his calf.

Sherlock reveled in the uncomfortable silence between the two older boys, ecstatic because of his brother’s discomfort. He took the opportunity to monopolize Christopher’s attention.

The ten-year old tapped his new friend’s arm—an ally in the War Against Mycroft—and asked, “Are you aware that Harrow received its charter from Queen Elizabeth I in 1572?” Sherlock then spoke at length about the school’s history, and when he learned that Christopher had attended Harrow’s International school in Hong Kong, he wasted no time asking more questions than Chris could ever answer.

Mycroft continued to glare at the two of them, thick as thieves. Sherlock snuck peeks at Mycroft, watching the flush creep up his neck. This was the best meal ever, he deduced. Ever.

Christopher continued to stroke Mycroft’s calf, intently listening to Sherlock but heart racing as he thought about this morning in their bed.

As they ate, Mummy and Father asked about the boys’ schooling and extra-curricular activities but seemed to focus on the events that kept them entertained on the weekends.

“We ride, watch the football matches, the typical things. Each Friday evening, we have guests from Wycombe Abbey or one of the other girls’ schools.” Christopher answered Mummy, charming her. Mycroft realized that he _did_ know how to speak to parents. Chris looked at Mummy as he spoke to her, his voice animated when he answered questions and recounted stories of their adventures.

“A handsome young man like you,” she said to Christopher, patting his hand and smiling. “You must have dates every weekend.” Was Mummy looking for gossip?

“No, Mrs. Holmes. Sadly, I don’t.” Christopher said, pursing his lips and frowning, as if to say, _I’m not worthy of attention_.

“No. That isn’t possible.” Mummy laughed, “You needn’t hide the truth from me. Do boys still hang socks from the door knobs when they need privacy?”

“Mother!” Mycroft gasped as he sat up straighter in his seat. He was going to die of mortification. This entire afternoon was too much for his heart.

“It’s true. Not the sock. No dates,” Christopher explained earnestly. “Really, it’s just as well. It irritates Mycroft if I go on dates. He insists we need to spend more time studying and less time ‘engaging in activities of a social nature’.” Christopher imitated Mycroft’s speech with perfection. Father laughed which ended in a cough as he caught his son’s scowl.

“He’s quite difficult to live with when he’s cranky,” Christopher explained patiently to Mummy. “Until I meet someone special or a better roommate, it’s easier just to give in.”

“You already have.” Sherlock attempted to sound bored, but his excitement broke through. This final deduction would properly aggravate Mycroft.

“What?” Mycroft blanched, as he looked from his parents to Sherlock, avoiding Christopher at all costs.

“He has found someone. And it includes snogging on a regular basis.”

Mycroft squeaked which made Sherlock laugh harder.

“Oh my, Sherlock. That is not at all appropriate for you to say.” Christopher hid his smile behind his hand. Mycroft hid his face in his hands, shaking his head.

By dessert and tea, Sherlock had succeeded in thoroughly entertaining Christopher and fraying Mycroft’s nerves to their last strand. Sherlock’s constant deductions nudged closer to the truth of their relationship and Christopher encouraged him. Mycroft’s glare of death would absolutely be permanent.

Somehow, inexplicably, Mummy and Father were oblivious to Sherlock’s evil behavior. They fussed and suggested more appropriate conversation, but allowed Sherlock to run roughshod over Mycroft.

“I’ve figured it out, you know,” Sherlock said smugly as they waited on the pavement for the boys’ taxi.

Mycroft’s stomach turned; lunch threatened to reappear uninvited. His headache throbbed, not helping his stomach.

“What’s that, dear?” Mummy asked, indulging Sherlock.

“Christopher and Mycroft have an odd relationship for roommates,” Sherlock told her, his eyes alive with his twin passions: impressing Mummy and really pissing off Mycroft. “An unusual dynamic.”

“Could you please make him stop.” Mycroft turned to his Father, knowing his mother had no idea that she was a pawn in Sherlock’s game of making his brother miserable.

Father sighed, exhaustion creeping into his voice. “Mycroft. Have I ever been able to make your brother do anything? Or you, for that matter?”

Exasperated, Mycroft threw up his hands. He knew father was right. He calculated his ability to shut Sherlock up with one punch versus how much wrath he would incur from his parents.

“They don’t want us to know,” Sherlock fairly squealed with the joy of spilling Mycroft’s secret.

Time stopped for Mycroft as his brother laughed at his discomfort. Obviously, Sherlock had deduced that he and Christopher were in love and would blurt out the truth without regard for how it would hurt them. How Mycroft would embarrass them. Humiliate them. And worse. Disappoint them. He decided in that instant to tell them himself, but Sherlock cut him off.

“They _loathe_ each other. They’re pretending to be nice for you two so they wouldn’t ruin your anniversary celebration.”

“Sherlock Holmes!” Mycroft gasped.

“You said he was clever, Mycroft,” Christopher hung his head in shame. Or laughter. “We never should have tried to bamboozle him.”

“What are you basing this on, Sherlock?” Father asked, instinct telling him something was off between the deduction and the boys’ reactions.

“Mycroft glared at Christopher the entire meal. If they were friends, they would have been laughing and happy, or at least talking. They barely spoke to each other. Mycroft is angry if Christopher brings a girl around. Clearly, he not only dislikes Christopher, but he’s jealous that Christopher gets all the girls while he doesn’t get any. It’s probably because of his weight. Why must you all be so oblivious?” With a sigh, Sherlock slumped against the wall of the restaurant, waiting for his parents to catch up.

Mummy nodded, looking from her son to his loathsome roommate. The inability to make eye contact. The tension and awkwardness between the two. She drew her own conclusions. Quite different from Sherlock’s.

“Hush,” she said to her youngest son, smiling at him. When the taxi arrived, she hugged Christopher. “Take care of my son,” she said quietly and kissed his cheek. “He needs someone to remind him that play is as important as work.” Christopher nodded against her cheek. A promise.

She turned to Mycroft and said, “We shall see you in a month for summer hols.” Mycroft shook his father’s hand formally, but allowed his mummy to fold him into her embrace.

“Christopher is a nice young man,” she whispered in Mycroft’s ear. “You are quite lucky to have a good friend.”

The cabbie hollered out the open window, “Meter’s runnin’, mates.”

Mycroft kissed Mummy one more time and hugged Father before he and Christopher got into the taxi. He watched out the side window as the restaurant grew smaller and faded in the distance.

Mycroft pulled Christopher to him, kissing him fiercely, nipping his bottom lip again and again. They were light headed with the need to breathe but neither wanted to pull back. “When we get back to the room, I’m going to show you how much I appreciate what you did today, especially entertaining my brother.” He punctuated each phrase with deep, needy kisses, full of meaning and promise. Mycroft’s hand drifted down Christopher’s chest to the obvious bulge at his zip, pressing firmly against it. He traced the shell of Christopher’s ear with his tongue and whispered, “If I anticipated that I could begin now without reprisal, I certainly would.”

Christopher whimpered and said to the cabbie, “There’s an extra fiver in it for you if you can get us back quicker.” His voice cracked as he thrust his hips against Mycroft’s palm, pushing down atop his trousers.

At the carpark, Father unlocked the passenger door of the Land Rover for Sherlock. Mummy chided, “Young man, your behavior today was dreadful and your deductions were not much better.”

Sherlock looked down, attempting to seem embarrassed by his unruly behavior but his pride won out. “I got it all right. There is something else going on. They’re not friends,” he insisted, cheekily.

Mummy smiled at her youngest son who did not yet know enough about life and love. “Perhaps you are correct. Perhaps they’re not just friends after all.”

**Author's Note:**

> the title comes from the Alanis Morissette song, Hands Clean. It's a sobering song and one of my favorites. I hope you'll click the vid!  
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2dH289KxkGw


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